


Scandalous Women

by heartofstanding



Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: Background Het, F/M, Female Friendship, Fertility Issues, Future Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Sex, Internalized Misogyny, Miscarriage, Period Typical Attitudes, Slut Shaming, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 10:02:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21195845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: Five meetings between Catherine de Valois and Eleanor Cobham.





	Scandalous Women

**Author's Note:**

> I joked, once, if I read one more historical fiction novel where Catherine and Eleanor were pitted against each other, I’d write Catherine/Eleanor smutfic. One novel later, I wrote this instead of smutfic for a crack pairing. 
> 
> I'm not entirely happy with parts of this but I'm sick of sitting of it and it's Catherine's birthday. Historical notes, as always, at the end.

** _One (1426)_ **

It makes Catherine squirm when they hear Eleanor Cobham has accompanied Gloucester on this visit. It is her duty to be offended and discomfited by it. The wife Eleanor has displaced in Gloucester’s bed is the widow of Catherine’s brother. And Jacqueline loved Eleanor, though her letters now castigate Gloucester for being diverted by Eleanor’s charms. Yet, listening to her damsels seethe and rail against it, her ears burning with the words they use – _slut, bitch, slattern, witch, harlot, wench, hedge-born strumpet, whore _– Catherine’s offence seems somewhat muted by comparison. 

Men take women who are not their wives to bed. Catherine’s husband did not, at least not as far as she knows, but he was a rarity. Her father had lovers, her mother was rumoured to have done the same. In England, there are the Beauforts, their line sired out of wedlock, later legitimised, and they all wear the glitter of royal favour and power.

Eleanor Cobham may be a whore, but she is hardly unique amongst women.

And Catherine herself lies down in her bed each night and feels desire pressing in around her, the tightness of her belly. She wants to be loved, she wants to be touched, but her husband is dead and there is no one to love her in the way she needs, to press his hand between her thighs and kiss her lips. There are men who want her, of course. Edmund Beaufort’s gaze is heavy, he has let his fingers brush over hers, let his mouth linger on the back of her hand, and once he fastened a jewelled collar around her neck, his fingers pressing into her shoulders, his breath warm against the top of her spine. She cannot have him, of course, her dignity and honour must remain unstained by such dalliances and Guillemote, her nurse, would weep in shame if Catherine allowed Edmund to kiss her.

But it is neither easy nor simple not to give in to desire.

If she had been in Eleanor’s position, if she had been as unwed and wanton, a minor gentlewoman who would marry a knight and bring forth his heirs into the world, would she have said no if Edmund Beaufort asked to kiss her?

Catherine does not think so.

*

Catherine walks with her ladies in the garden, through the last days of spring and the fresh growth. She feels the sun’s heat through the layers of silk and velvet cloaking her skin, smells the sweet breeze – the honeysuckle heavy with bloom, the roses bright and unfurled, their petals torn by yesterday’s wind to form a carpet for her. Her ladies chatter on with their idle talk, things Catherine barely takes heed of but knows inside out.

Catherine turns down an alley of bluebells and stops, hearing muffled weeping. A woman’s broken-hearted tears, the woman herself invisible as if she’s hidden herself away. Yet Catherine follows the sound and sees in the terrace below, amongst green hedges, a woman’s bent head, covered by a simple white cap and veil, and the lap of a blue woollen gown. Two of Catherine’s women lead the way down to her.

‘What are you doing here?’ Joanna says, her usually cheerful voice cold. ‘Get away, get away – the queen is using these gardens.’

‘Of course,’ the woman says, her voice trembling. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

Catherine frowns, pushing her way through. The woman leaps off the bench and curtsies, her pretty face red and wet with tears, and Catherine recognises her. Eleanor Cobham. 

‘Why are you crying?’ Catherine says.

‘Your grace,’ Guillemote whispers, clutching at Catherine’s arm. ‘That’s the Duke’s woman. You shouldn’t speak to her.’

‘I know who she is,’ Catherine says.

She pulls her arm away from Guillemote’s grip. Eleanor trembles as if Catherine is about to _hurt_ her. This is the woman that has caused such insult and scandal. She should be unrepentant and bold, not trembling.

‘I—’ Eleanor’s eyes drop. ‘I meant no offence, your grace. I, I didn’t know you were – I’ll go.’

‘You’re crying,’ Catherine says.

Eleanor wipes at her cheeks desperately but her shoulders are still hitching and her nose dripping. Catherine holds out her hand for her handkerchief and has to snatch it from Guillemote’s limp fingers. Eleanor flinches like Catherine is going to strike her.

‘Please, I will go,’ Eleanor says.

‘Your grace,’ says Guillemote. ‘Send her away. She is not fit for company.’

Catherine sweeps around to glare at Guillemote. She should know better than to speak as if Catherine is an ignorant child in need of correction. Especially when they are not alone, even if their company is only the Duke of Gloucester’s mistress.

‘You may go, Guillemote, if her presence offends you.’ Catherine raises her head and looks around at her ladies. ‘As may any of you.’

None of them move. Guillemote draws herself up.

‘I would rather not, your grace,’ she says. ‘I do not wish to leave you alone with her.’

Catherine stares at her nurse. She is not a child or an innocent who will be corrupted by breathing the same air as Eleanor. She has been a wife, is now queen, mother and widow. She does not require protection as if standing near Eleanor will make her lose all her morals and adopt Eleanor’s.

‘You will go, Guillemote,’ Catherine says, forcing her anger to one side to sound cool and level-headed. ‘I do not require your services.’

‘But—’

‘I said go, Guillemote. Will you disobey?’

‘I was charged to protect you—’

‘From what? A crying whore? You should not fear her but pity her. Go.’

Guillemote goes. Catherine steps forward and presses her handkerchief into Eleanor’s hand. Eleanor stares at it stupidly before raising it to her face. Catherine gestures for her women to give them space.

‘Sit down, please,’ Catherine says and Eleanor does, dropping down hard on to the stone bench. Catherine sits beside her, rubbing her hand across Eleanor’s shoulders. ‘Did Gloucester dismiss you? Hurt you?’

‘What? No, your grace, no.’

‘Then, should I have him sent for?’

Eleanor’s eyes widen, something like panic filling them, and she shakes her head. ‘No, no,’ she says, voice still thick with tears. ‘No, please, your grace, he is hunting.’

Catherine considers sending for him anyway; Eleanor is clearly upset and Catherine does not want to care for her but she can’t just leave her. Surely Gloucester – if he hasn’t caused this hurt – is the best person to care for her.

‘I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,’ Catherine says.

‘No, no, please, your grace,’ Eleanor says. ‘I’m fine, I don’t need anything.’

She sniffles and looks down at her lap, folding and refolding the handkerchief. Catherine frowns and takes the few wisps of damp hair sticking to her cheeks away from her face, tucking them back beneath her veil.

‘Why are you crying, then?’

Eleanor gives her a panicked look. ‘I don’t know. Suppose… suppose it was too much.’

‘Too much?’

‘I know what I am, your grace.’

‘And what is that?’ It’s unkind but Catherine wants to hear her say it. To admit to it.

Eleanor flinches and hides her face. ‘A brazen slut, a vain, shameless and foolish girl – _a crying whore,_’ Eleanor says. ‘I didn’t… I never meant to be this thing. And yet I am and I – I hate myself for it.’

Catherine frowns and wishes she hadn’t asked and exposed that seam of ugliness. It would have been better to gloss over it and sent Eleanor on her way once her tears eased.

‘Do you think the wicked do not weep because they know they are damned?’ Eleanor whispers.

‘You are not damned,’ Catherine says. ‘All of us are forgiven through Christ – if we repent.’

Eleanor shakes her head. ‘I’m not sorry, though – or not as sorry as I should be. I would not – I cannot stop. I know. I know I deserve every insult and cruelty. But I love him.’

‘Shh,’ Catherine says, rubbing Eleanor’s back. ‘You will upset yourself again.’

And Catherine does not want to understand Eleanor any further, to come to pity her or, worse, admire her for standing firm and saying, _I know what I am and I refuse to stop. _She sweeps her fingers over the collar of Eleanor’s gown, the pretty little red roses carefully embroidered.

‘These are pretty,’ she says. ‘Did you do them yourself?’

Eleanor glances down and nods.

‘You must show my embroiderer how you made them,’ Catherine says. ‘I haven’t seen the like of them – and if done in silver thread, they would look quite beautiful.’

‘Oh,’ Eleanor says. ‘Yes, I can do that, if you wish…’

‘I do wish,’ Catherine says. ‘And I wish you would stop crying and feeling sorry for yourself. Think of your future, instead. What will you do when this is over? When he dismisses you?’

Eleanor raises one shoulder in a half-shrug.

‘There will be those who will say that you should marry a man who does not mind a used bride and fade into obscurity,’ Catherine says. ‘I would advise that you enter a convent under a vow of chastity. Even if you are still not sorry, that may save your soul.’

Eleanor blinks, her eyes studying the ground. ‘Is that what you will do, your grace?’ she asks. ‘When the king has left your household?’

Catherine’s mouth opens, then closes. ‘Perhaps.’

She doesn’t want to think of the years before her, the quiet, long years with no husband and her son growing beyond her care. And a convent – she doesn’t want to live in a convent again, where her life will be quiet and ordered by bells and prayers.

‘Go and take confession,’ she says sharply. ‘The priest will give you enough penance to take your mind off your sins.’

Eleanor laughs. ‘Oh, I doubt it, your grace. But I will, your grace – since you will it.’

She folds the handkerchief again and makes to offer it back to Catherine. Catherine reaches out and folds Eleanor’s fingers around it.

‘Keep it,’ she says.

*

When she sees Guillemote again, the old woman seems worried and Catherine feels suddenly guilty for sending her away. Guillemote has been with her for as long as Catherine can remember – a mother in her infancy, a friend and loyal companion in childhood, the comforter when she met her husband and when she grieved for him, the one who had held her hand when she birthed her precious son. But then Guillemote studies Catherine as if there is some new secret or change she can discern in Catherine’s dress or face when there is none. She nods, satisfied, and Catherine tastes bile on her tongue.

‘I have not suddenly become a whore,’ Catherine says sharply. ‘And you should not have spoken to me like that in front of anyone. I am not a child you need to correct.’

‘Your grace! Your grace, I only…’ Guillemote goes pale and looks as if she will weep.

Catherine bites her tongue, feels the guilt well up inside her again, warring with her anger. Guillemote meant nothing cruel by it, of course, she only wished to protect Catherine. It’s what she’s always wanted.

‘I know,’ Catherine says, reaching out to squeeze Guillemote’s arm. ‘She is not worth us quarrelling or our attention. But I will not have anyone being cruel to her. We should pray for her soul.’

‘Why?’ Guillemote asks. ‘She is nothing but an ill-bred whore.’

‘Because she is that, Guillemote,’ Catherine says. ‘And Christ would pity her.’

*

Catherine’s embroiderer presents her with a new gown of deep red and little silver and gold roses stitched across the collar, hem and cuffs, and she wears it to dinner one day. Gloucester sees it on her and raises his brow and she thinks she sees Eleanor smile, though Catherine is careful not to look at her too closely in case Guillemote sees.

In the evening, she is heading to her bed and glances into the courtyard. She sees dim silhouettes walking arm in arm and recognises one as Gloucester, the other as Eleanor. Eleanor turns and kisses Gloucester, pressing their bodies together, and his arms hold her tightly, one hand slipping down to cup her buttocks. His mouth sweeps down the arch of Eleanor’s neck.

Heat rises to Catherine’s face and she hastily looks away before anyone can see where her gaze leads. There is a spark of desire or longing or envy, and her belly feels tight. She thinks, they will go to bed and lie together and I will go to bed and lie alone.

If it was possible, she thinks she would like to be Eleanor for a night – just one night – and take a lover. To be that shameless, that wanton, and satisfy the hunger inside of her. Then wake up as herself again, honour unblemished and no lover but a husband four years in his tomb.

** _Two (1428)_ **

Catherine is uncomfortable in her skin. She feels as though she lies with each word she speaks and though she confesses, she feels the stain of sin still upon her. Guillemote has not noticed. It seems laughable, how much she scrutinised Catherine when she spoke to Eleanor Cobham, how much she tries to keep Catherine safe and innocent, and _she has not noticed what Catherine has done. _To Guillemote, Edmund Beaufort was no threat, not when compared to a dissolute woman. Now the scandal has broken, now there is an Act of Parliament to prevent Catherine from remarrying, Guillemote is furious – at Gloucester.

She says he made it up to shame Catherine, to find an excuse to control her. That he should accuse and shame himself, the hypocrite, for his behaviour is no better than the Catherine he invented, not with _that hedge-born strumpet. _Catherine does not know whether she wants to laugh or be sick.

If the stories are true, though, Eleanor Cobham has been made somewhat respectable. Gloucester’s wife instead of his whore. Though that is more scandal as Gloucester’s first wife still lives (it took the Pope only six years to rule Jacqueline’s marriage to Brabant was valid and annul her subsequent marriage to Gloucester), and if Gloucester was to marry again, he should have chosen a woman of rank, not the daughter of a minor lord. They do not want to be made to curtsy to the woman they have named harlot and slut and call her _your grace, the Duchess of Gloucester._

Catherine, though, does not feel the full strength of the Act’s bite. She does not want to marry Edmund Beaufort. She did not even want him terribly, not as much as she wants Henry alive again, but she had been lonely and Edmund wanted her.

There is another man, though, that she thinks she could want. She saw him bathing once. He was naked. He saw her watching and his smile was beautiful and shameless.

*

It’s not until she sees Eleanor Cobham step forward and curtsy, a shy smile crossing her face as she is announced as _the Duke’s lady wife, _that Catherine realises she was searching for Eleanor amongst Gloucester’s retinue and is relieved to have found her. Though it is not surprising Catherine didn’t recognise her; Eleanor is dressed soberly in a high-necked, dull-coloured gown that only hints at the curves of her body and her face obscured by a wimple and veil. Catherine is not sure what it means – a pregnancy, perhaps – but Eleanor has always dressed prettily and to see her in this garb is strange.

Gloucester slips his arm around her waist and Eleanor’s smile brightens, her cheeks glowing. _I love him, _she told Catherine two years ago. Now Catherine sees it and the care Gloucester shows her, the quietly protective squeeze, as they turn to leave.

‘That hedge-born strumpet thinks we will all forget what she is,’ Guillemote hisses in the circle of women surrounding Catherine. ‘Just by dressing as a woman halfway between a widow and a nun.’

Catherine stiffens and is grateful when Alice speaks up in Eleanor’s defence.

‘She is trying to be respectable.’

Guillemote scoffs.

‘Hiding her tits as if every man from here to France hasn’t already seen them,’ Joanna says. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that she’s been known basely by more men than she can count.’

‘I did not know that she was known basely by any man but Gloucester,’ Alice says.

‘Well, one is still higher than she can count,’ Joanna says.

‘A woman should not have carnal knowledge of any man but her husband,’ Guillemote says superiorly. ‘If she does, she cannot be surprised to be called and treated as a harlot, can she?’

Catherine bites her tongue hard and tastes blood as the other women laugh. She thinks of Edmund Beaufort and the dark room and shudders. Alice’s arm brushes against her own.

‘Either way, you should be careful of how you speak, she’s a duchess now,’ Alice says.

‘Yet we speak as we do because the offence she has given the queen and her kinswoman,’ Guillemote says.

Catherine closes her eyes tightly and for a moment, she imagines herself striding forward to bring Eleanor and Gloucester’s departure to a halt. She will embrace and kiss Eleanor, bid her welcome as a sister – after all, they have married two brothers. But when she opens her eyes, it is too late. Gloucester and Eleanor are gone and Catherine can still taste blood in her mouth.

*

Catherine closes her eyes as Alice begins to brush her hair in preparation for braiding it up beneath the hennin she will wear to dinner. She wonders if Eleanor Cobham is doing the same or if she will still wear a wimple. She wonders what Gloucester thinks of his wife’s newfound style of dress.

‘I wish to speak to her,’ she whispers. ‘Tonight, perhaps.’

‘Your grace?’

‘The new duchess,’ she says. ‘When they are asleep.’

Alice begins to plait a section of Catherine’s pale hair, the movements smooth and unhurried. ‘You do not want the others to know?’

‘No,’ Catherine says. ‘They wouldn’t understand.’

‘I will do what I can, your grace,’ Alice promises just as Guillemote bustles over.

‘You two are conspiring again,’ she says. ‘Alice, go and help Joanna with her gown, the buttons are too small for my poor fingers.’

Catherine smiles at Guillemote, leaning her head back into her nurse’s hands. ‘Perhaps you should take on fewer responsibilities. Or think of retiring?’

‘And leave you, your grace?’ Guillemote declares. ‘Never.’

*

Catherine is unsure of this, slipping away from her ladies, from Guillemote – again. But it is different this time. She is not going to meet a man, but a woman, and to talk, not to touch. Alice leads her to the solar, the flickering light of the candle she holds revealing the tapestry that hangs over the still-glowing fireplace, the golden-haired woman with a harp and surrounded by roses. Eleanor Cobham is already there, a fur mantle over her dark clothes, and when she sees Catherine, she curtsies.

‘Wait outside,’ Catherine tells Alice and approaches the fire. ‘I’m glad you came.’

‘My queen commanded it,’ Eleanor says. Her face is impassive, but pale, and there is a glint of fear in her eyes that Catherine is both a little gratified and a little horrified to see.

She opens her mouth and does not know how to begin. She wanted to confess to Eleanor, because she is the only one who might understand, but she cannot just blurt out the secret she has carried inside her for more than a year. She studies Eleanor’s face, the smooth, white skin, the rosy lips, the delicate cut of her high cheekbones, the green eyes. In a way, the wimple makes her more beautiful, makes the eyes focus on her lovely face. Jacqueline was not ugly but Catherine suddenly pities her, to stand next to Eleanor and expect to keep Gloucester’s – any man’s – attention.

‘How could you do it?’ Catherine says. ‘To Jacqueline. She loved you.’

Eleanor swallows and her head drops down sharply. ‘I didn’t mean to,’ she says. ‘It was… never meant to happen.’

‘You don’t _accidentally_ become a man’s mistress,’ Catherine says, though she thinks of Edmund Beaufort and feels her belly become tight. ‘Don’t tell me Gloucester mistook you for Jacqueline one night or I will be sick with the boldness of your lie.’

Eleanor shakes her head rapidly. ‘No, no, no. It was supposed to be alright, and we were happy – all of us, even Jacqueline – and then… everything was ugly.’

‘It still is, no matter how you and Gloucester pretend otherwise.’

‘I never said it wasn’t,’ Eleanor says. ‘But it’s bearable now.’

‘Jacqueline would not feel the same, would she?’

‘No,’ Eleanor says. ‘No.’

Catherine sighs and steps back, raising her head to study the tapestry again. The roses don’t have any thorns on them, she realises, as if this love was perfect, without hurt. There is no point in this. She cannot undo Eleanor’s marriage, cannot bring Jacqueline back to England where she will be safe and loved, cannot reverse the Pope’s ruling and the six years of waiting.

‘Do you still weep? What did you say – the wicked weep because they know they are damned? Do you think yourself wicked and wrong still?’

‘Yes,’ Eleanor says. Her eyes narrow. ‘Why do you care about my soul?’

‘I laid with Edmund Beaufort,’ Catherine says and remembers the almost-casual way he fucked her and then came over her breasts and then _left her, _her body still wanting. She had to find some way of cleaning herself without letting anyone know, not even Alice. She remembers his voice, the words he used, how assured his hands were, how unhesitating he was.

Eleanor stares at her.

‘So I wonder,’ Catherine says. ‘If I am damned too.’

Catherine’s knees tremble and she sits down on the settle before she can fall. Eleanor perches on the edge, studying her face.

‘We didn’t think it was true,’ Eleanor says at last and it isn’t what Catherine wants to hear. ‘We thought it was just – a story.’

‘I didn’t mean for it to happen,’ Catherine says. She buries her face in her hands. ‘I loved Henry. I did. I know sometimes people don’t believe it – we didn’t have long enough. But I did love him.’

Eleanor’s hand comes to rest tentatively against her shoulder. Catherine takes a deep breath.

‘When you lose someone, you think you’ll never want anyone again,’ she says. ‘That you will be something hollow and cold for the rest of your life. But that changes and you – you miss things, simple things like – like having someone with you in bed, having someone _touch _you…’

Eleanor says nothing but her arm stretches across Catherine’s back.

‘And then, there’s a man and he looks at you and _sees _you,’ Catherine says. ‘And he has sweet words and sweeter kisses… and it’s easy to want him. To give in and go to bed with him.’

‘Yes,’ Eleanor says.

‘But once it’s done, it’s wrong,’ Catherine says. ‘I didn’t want Edmund, I wanted Henry, and it wasn’t – wasn’t like it had been with Henry. Henry would hate me. It was a sin, with Edmund, and I felt… used. Like – like a whore.’

Eleanor says nothing but she draws Catherine to her and hugs her.

‘I don’t think there’s anything I can say that you would believe,’ Eleanor says. ‘I can’t give you absolution. It wouldn’t mean much, coming from me—'

‘From one whore to another?’

Eleanor gives a small, bitter smile. ‘I wouldn’t call you a whore, your grace. I wouldn’t be ashamed of what you’ve done but we’ve already discussed the state of my soul.’

‘I told you, once – forgiven through Christ.’

‘Then so will you be,’ Eleanor says. ‘I never met – your husband. The king. But Humphrey talks about him a lot, and I don’t think the man Humphrey talks about would hate you. He would understand and would want you to be happy.’

Catherine swallows back the question she longs to ask: _how can she be happy without Henry? _ Eleanor wouldn’t be able to answer that. Catherine straightens and reaches out to tug on the edges of Eleanor’s veil.

‘Why are you dressed like this? In sacks and widow’s weeds? You’ll never satisfy them and you shouldn’t try to,’ she says.

Eleanor smiles shyly, quite beautifully. ‘I suppose not.’

‘Do you have anything better with you? I can’t imagine Gloucester likes seeing you dressed like this.’

Giggling, Eleanor shakes her head. ‘No, no, he doesn’t – but he hasn’t told me that.’

‘Well, tomorrow, you must see my tailor, see if he can make you something suitable for the Christmas feasts,’ Catherine says. She reaches over and grasps Eleanor’s hand, squeezing it, and then leans in to kiss her cheek. ‘You are a duchess now, Eleanor. You should dress like one.’

** _Three (1429)_ **

Catherine’s son has been crowned King of England and soon, he will leave to be crowned King of France. It seems such a burden for such a small, quiet boy but these things must be done – the machinery of the kingdom is too vast, too important to be waylaid by things like age. He is not yet eight years old.

She takes him out into the courtyard in the morning after his English coronation, watches him hunker down by a garden bed, going cross-eyed as he studies a caterpillar crawling across a wide, green leaf.

She will not go with him to France. She is not sure why, except that her presence has been deemed unnecessary. Her marriage had been meant as the crucial link in the forging of peace between England and France and now she is a widow, surplus to requirements, and the war goes on with no end in sight.

‘Uncle, uncle!’ Henry shouts. Then he gasps. ‘Dame Eleanor!’

Gloucester and Eleanor have just entered the courtyard, arm in arm and they separate to greet Henry properly, Gloucester bowing and Eleanor curtsying. Henry runs into Gloucester’s legs, clutching at him, and stares, awestruck, at Eleanor in her gown embroidered with cascading flowers. He flushes and hides his face against Gloucester when Eleanor speaks to him. Catherine smiles.

‘Shall we go in, your grace?’ Guillemote asks quietly.

‘And break his heart?’ Catherine says. ‘Besides, we should be more gracious to the Duchess of Gloucester. She is not going anywhere.’

‘The Duke might tire of her.’

Catherine clucks her tongue. ‘If he does, it won’t be in a hurry. He’s as besotted with her as Henry is.’

She gives Henry a moment to bask in the affection of his uncle and aunt before she sweeps forward, taking Eleanor’s arm and suggesting they walk a little while.

*

Gloucester and Henry are lagging, with Gloucester indulging Henry every time he wishes to stop and examine some leaf or branch or stone. Catherine does not mind, she is glad that it is not her that is forced to stoop over a pebble and exclaim at its prettiness or approve of a torn leaf. It is sweet the first few times, less so after the tenth time.

‘Will you be alright, without him?’ Eleanor asks quietly.

‘I must be,’ Catherine says. ‘I wasn’t offered the choice to go with him. But it is… very quiet without him.’ She bites her lip. ‘Eleanor, I feel I will go mad. There are days just stretching out before me with nothing in them. I was meant to be a queen and now – now I am to be a quiet little widow with not even a child to distract me.’

Eleanor squeezes her arm. ‘You can come stay with us – we’re always having poets or musicians over. And there’s more books than anyone can count. It’s hard to be bored there. I sometimes feel I have no time to think.’

Catherine blinks back sudden tears, grateful for the invite, spontaneously given. She doesn’t think she will go – Guillemote will never approve – but it is generous of Eleanor to offer her home up to Catherine. She squeezes Eleanor’s arm in return.

‘Thank you,’ she says as warmly as she can.

They walk a little longer, then pause at the end of one garden bed to wait for Gloucester and Henry to catch up. Henry has tired and is being carried on his uncle’s shoulders, Gloucester’s hat sagging under the weight of Henry’s treasures.

‘How do you not mind it?’ Catherine asks Eleanor. ‘The rumours, the name-calling. It must hurt.’

‘I pretend it doesn’t,’ Eleanor says. ‘I laugh at it, even when it hurts. And I have him, and he loves me.’

‘I suppose that’s something,’ Catherine says. ‘You can’t tell anyone but I think there is—’

She cuts herself off as she turns to face Eleanor, sees the hand resting against her belly. A gesture Catherine made herself countless times when she was with child. Her mouth opens.

‘You’re pregnant?’

‘Shh!’ Eleanor hisses, turning wide eyes on Catherine. ‘I haven’t – he doesn’t know yet.’

‘Oh, but that’s wonderful!’ Catherine says. ‘He’ll be thrilled, I’m sure of it.’

‘It’s early days,’ Eleanor says. ‘I want to be sure before I tell him.’

‘I won’t say, I swear,’ Catherine says. ‘But I’m so happy for you, a _child_—’

‘Mama, look!’ Henry says, grabbing a stone off the top of Gloucester’s hat to wave it in their direction. ‘Mama, Dame Eleanor, look what I found!’

*

Eleanor is there when they see off Henry for the last time, looking a little too pale, and she doesn’t come to supper. Soon it is heard that she has taken ill and later still, that she has lost the baby no one knew she was carrying. _Poor thing, _Alice says, and even Guillemote and Joanna seem sympathetic. Catherine feels a dreadful well of sorrow open up inside her and when she kneels at her prayers, she cries for the lost child and for Eleanor. Eleanor had been so excited.

It takes some courage but Catherine secures Gloucester’s permission to visit Eleanor. She takes only Alice with her and leaves her outside. She finds Eleanor in bed, her bright hair in one long plait, her eyes tired and dull, a book shut on the sheets next to her hand, and Paternoster beads looped around her wrist. There are fresh flowers in vases, the sweetness of their perfume almost sickly, and Catherine wonders if she should have sent something – gifts of food, perhaps, or more flowers. A sacred relic for comfort.

‘I’m sorry,’ Catherine says.

‘Yes,’ Eleanor says. ‘Me too.’

‘Are you in any pain?’

Eleanor shrugs. ‘No. Not anymore. It didn’t even hurt that much.’

‘Is there anything you need?’ Catherine asks.

She sits down on the edge of Eleanor’s bed, reaching out to stroke a loose piece of hair back from her face. She looks too pale still, her lips chapped and bearing the marks of her teeth. Catherine takes her hand and squeezes it tightly, weaving their fingers together.

‘A womb that can keep a child inside long enough for the child to live.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Catherine says, feeling useless.

Eleanor closes her eyes tight and shakes her head. ‘No, I’m sorry, that was cruel.’

‘It’s fine,’ Catherine says. She rubs her thumb over the back of Eleanor’s hand. She doesn’t know how she’d feel if she had lost a child. It is hard enough to imagine the world with her son in France and she in England.

‘I’ll recover,’ Eleanor says. ‘I always do. But it was kind of you to come.’

‘If there’s anything I can do – please.’

‘I need distractions,’ Eleanor says. ‘Anything. If I’m alone, I just keep thinking about – what happened.’

‘Distractions,’ Catherine says. She is not up for the task, she fears. She has no court gossip, no stories except the ones Eleanor has heard before. Then she remembers she had started telling Eleanor about Owen before she had been distracted by the realisation of Eleanor’s pregnancy.

‘There’s a man in my household, a Welsh man,’ she says. ‘I think I love him.’

Eleanor’s eyes slit open to regard her. ‘Oh? What’s his name?’

‘Owen,’ says Catherine. ‘I saw him bathing once.’

‘Without clothes, I presume.’

‘Yes.’ Catherine flushes but it’s worth it when Eleanor smiles. ‘He’s very handsome. Strong. And – he’s kind when he speaks to me. And bold and funny. He dances, too – not too well, though. He fell once, and landed with his head in my lap!’

Eleanor’s smile broadens. ‘Does he have any lands?’

‘No,’ Catherine says, confused. ‘Does that matter?’

‘It means he’s not subject to the Act,’ Eleanor says. ‘If you love him, you can marry him.’

‘But—’

Catherine stops, covers her face with her hand. She’s not quite sure that the regency council would agree with Eleanor, especially Gloucester. And she would have to tell Guillemote about Owen, tell her that she wants to marry again and do everything that entails.

‘I wish I could. But I can’t – can I?’

Eleanor squeezes her hand. ‘I never dared to wish and I am happy.’ Her face flickers. ‘Well, mostly happy.’

** _Four (1430)_ **

There is a storm when Catherine tells Guillemote she is pregnant with Owen Tudor’s child and planning to marry him before February. Guillemote weeps for days without speaking to Catherine. Catherine retires into Owen’s arms and waits it out, hoping that it is worth it. She remembers what Eleanor said, _and I have him and he loves me, even when it hurts. _Especially when it hurts, Catherine thinks, returning Owen’s kisses and taking the comfort he gives her.

After Guillemote’s silence and tears come her rage.

‘I do not blame you, of course,’ Guillemote says, patting Catherine’s hand. ‘If Gloucester hadn’t stuck his nose in, you would have married a man worthy of you. There would be no scandal.’

‘Sometimes scandal does not matter,’ Catherine says quietly. ‘And Owen is my choice – he loves me.’

‘And you’re sure of that, are you?’

‘I love him.’

Guillemote’s lips thin in displeasure. ‘And all the time you spent with _her_ – no doubt she encouraged you. Perhaps even pointed him out and suggested—’

‘He was my choice,’ Catherine repeats.

‘She stripped the morals from you, encouraged you to whore yourself out.’

Catherine grits her teeth. ‘I am not a whore.’

‘You’re pregnant out of wedlock,’ Guillemote says. ‘And to a lesser man. They’ll sneer, you know.’

‘I have been listening to you and my women sneering at the Duchess of Gloucester for years,’ Catherine says. ‘How could I not know?’

‘That is different.’

‘How? She loves him, he loves her – same as I love Owen and he loves me,’ Catherine says. ‘She was not married, I am not married – but she is now and so I will be.’

Guillemote stares at Catherine and then shakes her head. ‘I do not approve. I cannot. There are… ways out of this, you know. If you give me leave, I will find it.’

‘No!’ Catherine scrambles to her feet and presses her hand to her belly, where this second child grows. ‘You will not. I want him. I want to be his wife. And I want this child, this precious, precious child that cannot be taken from me.’

Guillemote’s nostrils flare and then she stands up. ‘I have always tried to protect you, your grace. Ever since you drew breath. I am old and weary and I do not know where I went wrong, but wrong I must have, for you to speak so. Behave so.’

‘No, Guillemote,’ Catherine says. She keeps her eyes on her old nurse, takes in the stiffness of her veils and wimple, the thinning, grey brows. ‘I am my own mistress now. My actions and words are my own. They have been for a long time. I am not a child to be corrected and chastised any longer. I have been a mother, queen and widow for over seven years, and now I wish to be a wife again.’

To have a family again.

*

Her belly is swollen with the child and she is married, Owen’s wife in both word and flesh now. Guillemote is past the worst of her anger and sorrow, fiercely protective and snapping at anyone who so much as hints that Catherine was pregnant before her marriage. But their relationship has fractured in some irreparable way, a sourness lingering that grieves Catherine. She is no longer Guillemote’s precious little girl, no longer an innocent child that Guillemote must protect. But she is in her twenty-ninth year of life, a grown woman, and she has not been a child in need of Guillemote’s guarding for some years.

She takes comfort in Alice, who tells her that Guillemote will come around when the baby is born, and Owen, who does not care what an old woman thinks of him and kisses Catherine until she forgets. In July, the sixth month of her pregnancy, she writes to Eleanor, asking her to come and stay for a little while.

Eleanor comes when summer is beginning to give way to autumn, the leaves turning amber and the roses growing wild despite the best efforts of the gardener. She brings gifts, delicately embroidered caps and blankets for the baby that even Guillemote and Joanna say are pretty.

*

Eleanor grimaces when Catherine asks her how Gloucester has taken the news of her marriage and pregnancy while they walk through the gardens, arm in arm again. It seems good to be amongst the clear air, to watch the gardeners at their industry.

‘I don’t think he’s happy,’ Eleanor says. ‘I don’t know if he’ll ever be. But you shouldn’t worry about him. He’s content to let it be, so long as he doesn’t have to deal with a scandal.’ She smiles. ‘Another one, that is.’

‘I would think he would understand.’

Eleanor shrugs. ‘If you were anyone but his brother’s widow, he would, probably. He gets tangled up when he thinks about his brother.’

Catherine nods, stopping to pluck a sprig of lavender, bringing it to her nose to sniff. She supposes she knows that.

‘And you are still happy? The news hasn’t… divided you, has it?’ Catherine gnaws on her lip and feels surprised by the realisation that she doesn’t like the idea of being the cause of discord between the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester. But Eleanor only laughs.

‘No, no,’ Eleanor says. ‘He thinks it’s sweet, that I defend you. That I am better than him for trying to see the best in everyone while he is beginning only to see the worst.’

Her face darkens a little so Catherine reaches out with the sprig of lavender to tickle her cheek. She giggles and swats at it, trying to pull away.

‘So you are still happy?’ Catherine asks.

‘There are things that could be better,’ Eleanor says. Her eyes slant towards Catherine’s belly and for one brief moment, envy dances naked on her face. ‘But there are always things that could be better. And I am loved and so I am happy.’

‘Good,’ Catherine says. ‘You deserve to be.’

‘And are you happy, too?’

Catherine laughs and tucks her arm back into Eleanor’s. ‘I am.’

** _Five (1436)_ **

The abbey is quiet and still. It is strange that after once fearing the slow, silent drag of days on her own what she craves now is the serenity they promise. But then, she supposes, she was young then and her life half-lived and now her life is full and she is dying. The baby in her belly presses against her struggling lungs. Sometimes she has moments where she cannot breathe, when she thinks she is not bearing a child but a leech, a parasite. Then her lungs open again and she can take penance for thinking ill of her last child.

Outside, it is cold, winter lies heavy over the land. Inside, her women have lit fires and bundled her with furs, yet there is a cold in her bones that they cannot drive out. She thinks more and more of her first husband, of her parents, her brothers and sisters, of Guillemote, Jacqueline and Bedford who are all now buried. It is not that she ceases to think of Owen and her children, whom she loves, but that they belong to the world of life and Catherine is creeping towards her death.

Her women have hung the tapestry of the golden-haired woman and the thornless roses above the hearth. Catherine spends hours each day, studying it. She wonders who the woman is and knows it must have been someone long ago, her clothes are so old-fashioned. There is something sad in her expression, some trick with the eyes that make her seem full of sorrow. The roses are thornless and around the borders are little blue forget-me-knots. If the roses are meant to represent sweet love, why is the woman so sad?

‘Your grace,’ Alice says. ‘You have a guest. The Duchess of Gloucester.’

Catherine blinks and turns away from the tapestry. ‘Invite her in,’ she says. ‘Make her warm. It is no day for travelling.’

Alice curtsies and goes, and then Eleanor is there, looking fresh and young though she is the same age as Catherine. Her eyes are unshadowed, her skin glowing, and her face yet to grow gaunt and hollow. She has no children and likely never will but there are years and years in front of her. Catherine, for one brief moment, hates and envies her. She will live and be loved and happy for many years yet.

Catherine gathers her strength to stand, reaching out to embrace her. Eleanor hugs her tightly, her arms warm around Catherine. She smells of roses.

‘Do you need anything?’ she asks. ‘Anything at all?’

Catherine shakes her head. She wants to live longer and she wants assurances for her husband and her sons’ future, but she doesn’t want to ask Eleanor for them. Does not want to lay that burden on Eleanor and damn her if she cannot promise to fulfil them. She sits on the settle again, tugging Eleanor down beside. She gestures to the tapestry.

‘I have been trying to work out who she is,’ she says. ‘Why she is so sad.’

Eleanor studies it for a while, her eyes narrowed. ‘It reminds me of a poem,’ she says. ‘About a man who loves a lady and loses her.’

‘How? Did she choose another for her husband?’

‘She dies,’ Eleanor says, and then bites her tongue, colour flooding her cheeks. ‘Oh, no, I did not mean – I’m sorry.’

Catherine takes Eleanor’s hand and squeezes it. ‘I know.’

‘I’m such a fool.’

‘No,’ Catherine says. ‘Maybe that is why the woman in the tapestry is sad. She is dying, having known sweet love, and now she must leave it.’

Tears prick at her eyes and she stares down at her lap, feeling Eleanor’s fingers tighten around hers. She does not want to leave Owen or her sons. She does not want to take the child in her belly with her. She does not want to die.

At last, she masters herself and straightens Eleanor’s fingers, examining the jewels on her fingers. Sapphires and rubies, one diamond. All gifts from her husband, Catherine would think.

‘You always dress so well,’ she says.

Eleanor smiles weakly. ‘My one skill.’

‘No,’ Catherine says. ‘Surely not. I’ve heard about your feasts.’

‘I wish you had come to one,’ Eleanor says.

‘So do I,’ Catherine says. She closes her eyes, coughs and feels blood burn in her throat. She swallows and swallows again, feels the child turn in her belly.

‘Here,’ Eleanor says, and there is a cup of wine being pressed into Catherine’s hands. She sips at it gingerly, manages to swallow and keep it down. Her hands are shaking.

‘I think we could have been friends,’ Catherine says. ‘I wish – I wish we had been.’

‘I thought we were, in a way,’ Eleanor says.

‘In a way. If you had been in my service…’ Catherine says. ‘So much might have been different.’

‘But would we have been happy, then?’ Eleanor says. ‘Would we be as loved as we are now?’

Catherine shakes her head, her voice failing her. She reaches out and cups Eleanor’s cheeks, leans in to press her lips against Eleanor’s soft cheek, and thinks, _sisters, we are sisters. _

**Author's Note:**

> **Historical Notes**  
I don't believe Catherine and Eleanor were very close or remotely close to 'best friends' but there's no record of them ever interacting. As suggested in the fic, the fact that Jacqueline of Hainault was Catherine’s kinswoman (in addition to being the widow of Catherine’s older brother, John, Duke of Touraine, they were both descendants of John II of France), Catherine was unlikely to think well of the woman blamed for Jacqueline’s abandonment. Additionally, Eleanor’s husband, Gloucester, probably also provided a stumbling block – he had created the Act of Parliament that restricted Catherine’s chances of remarriage (but to be fair to him, this was probably less about policing Catherine’s sex life and more about the increasing dominance of the Beaufort family and concern about the influence a stepfather would have on the child Henry VI) and his treatment of Owen Tudor after Catherine’s death in 1437 suggests that he wasn't exactly happy about their marriage. Eleanor’s thoughts and feelings on anything, let alone Catherine and Owen, are unrecorded but I figured - considering her own irregular status - she might have been more sympathetic to Catherine's situation. 
> 
> And while Catherine was unlikely to want to be too friendly to Eleanor, given that both Eleanor and Catherine were seen as scandalous, oversexed women and that, like Eleanor, Owen was lowborn and in love with someone of a far greater status – maybe it’s possible that Catherine could relate to Eleanor on some level. Maybe they had both sympathised with each other or at least felt they understood each other. 
> 
> Edmund Beaufort was believed to have been courting Catherine at some point - this is what led to the Act of Parliament limiting her chances of remarriage. It is impossible to know how genuine he was or how far their relationship went. I liked the idea of Catherine having a fling with him and while I don't think their relationship was ever sexual, presenting it in that light served to push the door open for Catherine and Eleanor’s relationship to develop and to exorcise my frustrations with the idea that depicting historical women having sexual relationships with men they aren’t married to is somehow outrageously offensive in of itself.
> 
> It’s not known when Catherine and Owen Tudor’s relationship began or when they married. There is some debate about whether they were actually married but I think it's pretty damn likely that they were. Their first son, Edmund, was born c. 1430 – his Wikipedia page gives the specific date of 11 June 1430 but when I looked up my reference books, there was no specific date given so I pushed it back a couple of months to make my timing work. Eleanor was Gloucester's mistress from around 1425 and probably married him in 1428, though these dates are uncertain.
> 
> Catherine died at Bermondsey Abbey on 3 January 1437, shortly after delivering her final child. Although her presence at the abbey is often said to be because she had been “forced” there by Gloucester after her marriage to Owen Tudor was discovered and that she died in childbirth, it is more likely that she retired there due to a serious illness. Catherine’s will, drawn up 31 December 1436, mentions a “long, grievous malady” that she has suffered.


End file.
